Frank wasn't sure about the wording. He stood staring at the paper, running through the possibilities. Did Scott know that Frank knew that Scott was Lawrence Lowell's brother, or was he planning to tell him at the Ice House? What did it matter? What was inevitable was that Scott would use Lynn to get Frank to submit to the transfer without resistance. Frank felt like running, getting in his car and driving non-stop to Boston. But what about Lynn...and anyway how could he hide. Could he keep resisting their attempts forever? How could he escape from people who could come after him through another dimension, an afterlife, reach through it and yank his soul out, anywhere in the world?
Frank turned toward the back wall and saw something that he had missed earlier when he came through the back window, before his eyes had adjusted. On the wall was a large oil painting, a portrait, and a plaque with engraving on it, that said:
Lawrence Lowell. 1937-____
The date of death was left blank. Frank picked up a vase, stepped back and hurled it at the oil painting. It crashed against it and the board behind the painting caused the vase to break. But aside from a shard of glass sticking out of the canvas, there was no damage. Frank took the oil painting from the wall and smashed it over the back of a chair. The backing shattered, punching through Lowell's face tearing the canvas apart. Frank placed it back on the wall, and neatly leveled it. Then he headed for the front door, but noticed another door. He opened the door and entered the torture chamber. He had none of the recognition of the place that Lynn had. The arrangement of the rooms was such that, as Frank realized, they couldn't be seen from out in front of the cabin. Trees and an extension of the ridge and also the cabin itself concealed the extra rooms, making the place look much smaller. A similar situation existed with the garage, concealing it in back.
The devices that Frank saw in one of the rooms made him shudder, or maybe, he thought, it was the atmosphere of past suffering that he sensed.
How could anyone live in a cabin attached to a torture chamber and be relaxed? Some of the devices were obvious as to their use, restraints of various types hanging on the wall or on the thick post. Others were not so obvious but their configuration suggested a use, such as an electrical control panel on the wall with a rheostat, a device to gradually increase current. Two leads went to electrodes that were attached to cuffs, that were about wrist size.
Other devices defied explanation such as a metal ring hanging from the ceiling. It had an opening where the ring could be opened and then shut again. It was about the size of a collar and the wire it hung from could be drawn up and down.
On one wall was painted a greatly over sized dart board with alternating black and white rings. There were four restraints, two from above and two from below and a thick metal belt hanging loose at about the height of an average woman's waist. There were puncture marks all over the target except inside the area untouched by darts that was the shape of a body with arms and legs spread.
There were blood stains running down the dart board and bloody smudges in places. The outline of the body and the bloodstains reminded Frank of a macabre parody of the Shroud of Turin. He shook off a shiver and continued to the next room. Maybe he could find something that he could use against Scott, some kind of weapon that he could bring to the Ice House. He found a light switch just outside the door, flipped it on, closed the door behind him and stood in a room in which the linear dimensions of a normal room were replaced by the walls and ceiling of a cave. Frank had to touch the walls to determine that they were not real rock but instead something like fiberglass painted to look like rock. On the walls were manacles and in the cave were medieval type torture devices., a rack, an iron lady, a water torture device. The light was provided by simulated gas lanterns on the walls that shone with a hellish flickering light.
He found a handle on the wall, another light switch, and opened the door into the next room. Frank walked into a recreation of a section of a colonial village. In the center of the space, surrounded by building facades were a pillory, stocks, and a dunking stool with a small pond built into the ground. Frank knew now that this complex of rooms must extend deeply into the ridge, not showing from the outside at all. On a public notice board was posted a bill of public punishment for the unfortunate last victim of Scott Lowell in this room.
Frank thought again about how he might use something as a weapon but saw nothing usable.
Frank was amazed and revolted by what he saw, unprepared for what no other person other than the victims had seen before, as far as he knew. How, he wondered, had the Lowells recreated these areas. Frank got out his phone, thinking now of sending photos to some police agency in another town, but no signal. What the hell? He snapped photos anyway to see if he could maybe send them later before arriving at the Ice House.
Did Lawrence Lowell have the same genetic tendency toward art appreciation that Frank had? Did he however have the talent that Frank didn't have, the ability to recreated an early American village square. Surely they couldn't have hired artists and craftsmen to do the recreations. The word would have gotten out and although Lawrence Lowell dominated this town and had everyone in his pocket, he would have wanted to keep something like this secret.
There was another door into another room but he didn't open it. He had seen all he wanted to see of this place. He felt his stomach contract into a knot.
He didn't know what would to happen to Lynn and him, but he knew he wanted to end Scott's and maybe Lawrence Lowell's upcoming activities in this place. He walked back into the main part of the cabin, found a can of kerosene and poured it into a stack of newspapers and magazines and lit it. The pile flared and then settled down to an oscillating flame that danced on the surface of the pile.
Frank went to the front door, picked up a chair and smashed it against the door and then kicked at the door in rage. The door swung open. He staggered out and fell to his knees, his hands to the sides of his head. Frank's insides felt like they were being chewed at by a school of piranhas. A long wailing and echoing “Shiiiiiiiiit...Oh God,” filled the compound. The raccoon abandoned the trash and ran through the woods crunching sticks and leaves as it fled.
Frank ran back to his car and headed down the dirt road. He had no other choice. The police no doubt had orders from Scott to keep him in Southford.
In his rear view mirror, Frank saw a glow coming from the compound but he had forgotten about Scott's security system. Scott hadn't bothered to engage the anti-intrusion system when he left but the smoke detection system was on permanently. Extinguishers popped out of their recesses in the ceiling and put out the flames. Frank tried his phone again. No signal. What the hell is this?”
CHAPTER 30
Lynn was injected with a sedative, a dosage that would stop her heart. Bostwick was absent, nowhere to be found. A few staff members who Scott knew had the least morals were there. Only enough to complete the task at hand. Scott promised to double their bonuses when Lawrence was revived. Other staff had been told to leave. Lynn was held down. She would be hastily packed in dry ice for storage, no draining of her blood to mix with chemicals. Scott knew she would never be frozen in liquid nitrogen for permanent storage. But he didn't tell the staff this. After he got what he wanted from Frank he would let his newly revived brother decide what to do with Lynn. Scott had every confidence that Frank would arrive back at the Ice House any time now. He would deal with Bostwick later for letting Frank go. Maybe dock him a month's pay.
Sweat poured profusely off the forehead of one member of the staff and he appeared ready to faint as he looked at the door. Scott got out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off the man's brow. He appeared to calm down. Scott said, “We're so close now. Hang on. In a short time your standard of living is going to increase a whole lot.”
Lynn's spirit drifted above her body, looking down on the staff, on the room, and on her body being prepared for dry ice storage. The trauma of sudden death should have shocked her, filled her with the kind of terror that is supposed to r
esult in a ghost, but her spirit felt at peace. The things she learned in the last few days filled her with confidence and there was the fascinating once-in-a-lifetime experience of looking at her face from the outside. It looked nothing like the image she was used to seeing in the mirror. The two-dimensional image that always had looked back at her from the mirror was suddenly three dimensional. She saw her image as other people had always seen it. She watched, fascinated, until her body was wheeled out for what she assumed was storage. Now she felt fear settling in. She had nothing to be fascinated about now. She was dead. Finality. Her spirit glanced around. What now? Although she was without a body she felt something touch her hand. Her cousin Karen, who had drowned as a child was next to her holding her hand and Lynn felt at ease again. Karen smiled and just said, “It's not your time.” Then she faded.
After a moment there was a disembodied voice, “Hello, Kitten.” She recognized the voice and the pet name of her childhood and turned to see the being that accompanied the voice.
As Frank entered the board room, Scott leaned on the back of the chair in which Lawrence Lowell's figure sat.
“Good evening,” said Scott. “You know what I want.” The look in Scott's eyes was that of a person who has trudged through a wasteland for a month and finally catches a glimpse of civilization.
Frank stood silent, his feelings varying between rage and fear.
“Where is she?” He wanted to add, “You sick bastard,” or “you crazy old bastard,” but thought better of it, knowing that Scott was in control of this situation.
“I'll take you to her,” Scott wore a parody of a smile that made Frank want to pound it off his face. Instead, Frank thought about the cabin burning, out at Scott's pond. Scott would be outraged. It would have to serve as Frank's posthumous revenge if Scott killed him and Lynn. Then he felt worse fear about it. What if Scott didn't kill Lynn and him? He'd find out his cabin was destroyed and then he would do more than just kill them. Frank realized he was dead in either situation, but maybe not permanently dead, maybe frozen. Still a chance. Lawrence Lowell may be revived but he still wouldn't live forever. He'd still die some day, his body rotted to dust. But he wouldn't rot to dust. Lowell would have himself frozen again, having assembled a new staff to work on another project to reverse whatever had killed him this time.
It was hopeless. Frank couldn't see any way that he could get out of this. At least Scott wouldn't use his cabin to do anything to Lynn. Scott motioned for Frank to leave the room and he knew where he was supposed to go. He slowly headed for the door. Scott gave him a shove. Frank realized that Scott hadn't stuck a gun in his ribs but had shoved him with his hand. He didn't remember seeing a gun in either of Scott's hands.
Just past the door to the tomb that Lawrence Lowell had been in was another door, Scott opened it and turned on the light. It was what Frank had expected to see when he was first shown Lawrence Lowell's sarcophagus. White walls, white ceilings, stainless steel pipes and equipment. Three tanks dominated the scene. Huge pill shapes side by side. Frank noticed that one had condensation on it and there was still a mist and a chill in the air from dry ice. Frank's heart was pounding dreading to see what he already knew. Lowell led him over to the tank and opened the outer cover. He wiped condensation off the viewing port and Frank could just make out, packed in dry ice, through the surrounding mist, the blurred image of Lynn's plastic-wrapped features and blond hair that confirmed what he had feared. The plastic wrap, he had learned, was to prevent contact burns from the dry ice, made her look like a shrink-wrapped doll.
“It's dry ice. She can be revived rapidly with our techniques,” Scott said and smiled. Frank wanted to smash him. “Can we begin, Mr. Tilton?”
“I'm not beginning anything until you undo what you've done here!” Frank spoke loudly but with a shaky voice.
“Then you do agree to let the project take its natural course and stop resisting?”
“I don't have much choice. Anyway, I've asked this before, Why aren't you just killing me?”
“Mr. Tilton. We're doing everything we can to assure the successful revival of my brother. The unexpected death of your body might achieve a successful transfer of Law's spirit back to its rightful owner but if we kill you now you'll see it coming and you'll be terrified. There's a lot of evidence that a violent death often results in a spirit being locked on an earthly plane. A ghost in other words. Due to the circumstances lately, I've been forced to do some reading in other than my usual areas of interest.”
“You're afraid I'll haunt you?
“We're afraid the spirit will be stranded outside anyone's body. Maybe for eternity. We'll tranquilize you and anesthetize you so that the transfer will be a relaxed one without any fear or terror on your part. Now, accompany me back to the board room.”
Back in the board room Frank turned to Scott. “You've been lucky so far. But everyone gets caught some time.”
“You morons that rely on luck or hard work to make things happen your way are pathetic. Nobody ever got anywhere by sitting back and praying that everything goes their way.” He slammed his fist down for emphasis and raised his voice. “You have to make it happen. You get everything and everyone out of the way that's preventing it from happening.”
“But what about the Gods or God?” tried Frank. “How can you get them out of the way?”
Scott laughed a self-convinced superior laugh that made Frank grit his teeth as if he had just heard someone scratch their fingernails the whole length of a chalk board.
“Gods!” Scott bellowed. “What have Gods done in the last 2000 years...if they even did anything back then or even before that. Show me some concrete evidence of anything a God has done lately that should make me worry.” He challenged Frank, holding his hands out palm up as if to say, “Come on let's have an answer.”
Frank fired back. “Medjugorj...Fatima, Lourdes, Guadaloupe.”
“Rubbish!” scoffed Scott. “Mostly just kids telling stories to get attention, right? And Lourdes? If you had a million people a year visiting a football stadium you'd record more spontaneous cures than there are at Lourdes.”
“What about after you die? You can't use your money to control anything then.”
Scott shook his head slowly in derision. “What have you seen in the last week or so here in Southford? The Lowells have separated themselves from all that. If there are Gods or spirits let them do what they will to others. The Lowells choose to remain here and not be robbed of what we've achieved. We'll never pay for anything we do if there is even any price to pay at all. We'll never pay it after death or before it.” Scott straightened, a smirk dominating his face, crossing his arms in front of himself, reminding Frank of movies he had seen of Mussolini. “You typical excuse of deluded, pathetic humanity. When you've got the wealth and power of the Lowells you make the laws. I buy off another state politician or selectman, or coroner or district attorney every year. Two or three a year sometimes. And the reason I might not put one in my pocket is because it bores me terribly to handle it. It's too easy.” A quick taunting smile, then,”It would be impossible to make me pay for anything I've done even if I murdered a nun on Main Street and sold tickets!”
Frank was silent as he wondered if Scott was right. Could things get to the point where someone was beyond reach of the law? If the FBI came in, for example, and tried to charge him with something, he could probably get the mayor, the police chief and some state senators and maybe some judges to testify that Scott was with them at a cookout at the time.
Frank watched as Scott headed toward the door. Scott stopped. “I'm going to prepare things now. I'll be back soon. Have a seat.” He left and Frank heard the door lock shut.
Mrs. Lowell sat quietly in her lawn chair looking out across the unused but perfectly-maintained swimming pool toward her formal gardens. She watched as two gardeners worked. As a dragonfly crossed her field of vision a few times, her thoughts also flitted here and there. She thought back seventy years to her youth, a m
iddle class upbringing on Long island, walks on the then deserted beaches, family outings, college days, an abortive career as a journalist, then back to college where she met Lawrence Lowell. Even then he seemed to have an advance notice of what he was going to become. Already he made the right investments, met the right people. He saw the same future for her. Her family had little money but they had political connections in New York. Lawrence saw this as a possible advantage over his future opponents in business and he and Eleanor were married.
The dragonfly made a close pass, hovering a few feet away from her, seemingly examining her for a moment and then landed on a branch, the twin sets of wings reminding her of a miniature version of a World War One biplane, Her thoughts moved again through time, to when she met Frank and Lynn.
Had she forgotten something, she wondered. There was something that kept bumping into the outskirts of her memory.
In the mist and haze of her aged mind, something tried to drag its way up from her subconscious. Like a scientist who goes to bed with an unsolved problem on his mind and dreams of the solution, parts of her mind worked on something that didn't seem just right. Yes...scientists...that must be it., she thought. The scientists tried to kill those two young people. But another something kept poking at the edges of her consciousness and finally found an opening.
“Scott!” she said out loud. The gardeners turned to look. She waved them back to work with a flick of her hand. “Scott.” she said softly now. “Scott...the bastard!” She got the attention of the gardeners and had them notify the chauffeur and when he came to her she said, “Take me to the Pond.”
As she waited for the car to be brought around she thought back. Like a battery exploding in her face her senses were assaulted with the acid memory that she had repressed all these years. Was Scott still doing his evil things at the pond? She had never seen the inside of the cabin, was never invited. It was like a Victorian mens' club but she had heard rumors about what went on in there. A young politician on his way up but not noted for his morals had been invited for a weekend of fun at the cabin. The next time he had seen Mrs. Lowell at a social gathering he had taken her aside and said that he had been invited to the cabin, had expected a weekend of fishing, hunting, or whatever rich powerful men thought that other men who aspired to power should do when in the company of other similar men.
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